


Enough

by ixtecastles (spacerace)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Daddy Issues, Father Figures, Light Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8871508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacerace/pseuds/ixtecastles
Summary: Don't call me son.I'm not your son.





	

Alexander had always been perceptive. Sharp eyed and quick tongued; constantly moving forward in pursuit of a legacy, of acceptance and approval.

The question was always there, in the little soldier boys eager eyes. Was he enough? Was he making them proud — when death catches him, how will they remember him, will they remember him? He fought so hard to make sure they would remember him. On the battlefield Alexander spent almost as much time glancing back at Washington as he did firing. His big brown eyes pooled with determination; they occasionally overflowed into tiny creeks that rolled down his cheeks when it seemed he couldn't be enough. George wasn't his old man — Alex knew that, made sure everyone else knew it, too. A tender 'son' from his beloved general was overwhelming, left him heavy in the chest, and too often led to an automated response from the boy.

_Don't call me son._

_I'm not your son._

As much as it was a defense mechanism, a smoke screen to shield how raw he could become at the slight caress of just one word, he really wasn't. The truth came down to that. He wasn't. Eventually the general got the idea. One fight set the record straight, and Mr. President George Washington, his so admired commander, never called him son again. The little hair tussling that could keep Alexander keening and preening feathers of pride on his worst day disappeared. No more 'That's my boy', no more fatherly attention. Every ounce of power Hamilton had dissipated and bounced off his shiny tears, reflecting onto Lafayette and the other soldiers. Bitterness drenched his throat and tongue as Alex was forced to watch from the margins; watch these little men and his best friend get the appreciation he strained his voice for.

His best friend. Possibly the worst of them all.

That amazing Frenchman. His dear friend, the Marquis. Lafayette never complained when George called him son, not once. No, no, Lafayette, he basked in it. Lafayette named his own son after the general. If that wasn't a transfer of power, Alexander didn't know what was.

The worst part about the worst part was knowing that Lafayette brimmed with confidence. No artificial pride, just the muscle and ego of a stallion. Alexander would bet his life twice over that the Marquis never stayed up until dawn, drowning in ink and doubt. He probably dreamt of baguettes and rapping too fast. Alexander was envious. Bitter.

It was almost brain numbing, watching and feeling the general go so steely eyed and cool touched on him. Alex was treated with respect, oh yes, and that was fine. All he ever wanted was respect. He'd asked for it, crawled through gory war to reach it. Now he had it and it set him aflame, but it was missing a vital piece. Approval. Acceptance. What was a bastard, orphan, son of no one and a whore, an immigrant, supposed to do without his key element? Suddenly, no door would unlock for him. Brute force could not topple the wall that he'd so accidentally built. What could he do?

Well, he dug his claws into everything is what he did. Everything and everyone. The world was between his teeth like a dog and a tennis ball. Sharp canines bled it dry of affection anywhere it showed an opportunity, leaving it pallid and weak. Eliza delighted in his newfound oceans of desire for family-time. Her smile was warm, the music she played with their beautiful son was a symphony impossible to imitate in words, because it so often came to his ears as melodic laughter, too fine to record on any mortals keys or strings. They creaked by in that dusty, cozy pace from day to day, breathing warm, dry air and dancing across untouched floors to new old music. They fell sleep in each others arms on the ground, swaddled in forts made of pillows by their children, so tired that they couldn't move to the bed, and hummed together a sweet refrain.

Angelica smiled, playfully envious of the pluming, ashy smoke that billowed from rekindling romance. That smoke, as most smoke, clung to everything it touched, like vines on walls. She was not exempt from its pursuits.

"My Dearest Alexander," she'd write, "I wish you would've gone upstate. It seems you've had a change of heart,"

He'd reply, "My Dearest, Angelica.. I wish you didn't stay an ocean away. I think I've had a change of heart,".

  
Then there was Burr. He was unlike the Schuyler sisters in ways both good and bad. Aaron took Alexander's potent desperation for praise and approval with sour, curious grins. They waltzed to a caliginous beat, a cautious falling-in-friendship ballad riddled by rivalry. Alexander was always a step ahead, always a note too quick for Burr to comprehend on time. They would debate together, drenched in midnight and starlight under icy cold moons. At the end of each night, Aaron would slip him a vague compliment, and the response would burn itself into his mind.

Alexander's heart would jump and stop, catching heavy and thick in his throat. He replied, _"Yes, I'm sure, sir,"_ to every one, cockier on days that he felt better, far away on days when hurricanes reigned over his thoughts.

"You're very smart, Alexander."

"Yes, I'm sure, sir." Right on beat.

A hazy, dizzy smile would render the poor man giddy.

Burr held his tongue, Burr was rational, but even he couldn't resist the puppy dog excitement in such an apex predator. Praising Alexander was a gift in itself, if one were thought to be paid in reactions. Eyes shone like silver weapons glittering in rainy moonbreak. Each little wrinkle that bunched up at Alexanders eyes was a bullet laced with sugary poison. Never did Hamilton's little quips leave Burr so helpless as when the little ball of fire was desperate for the confirmation of strong hands and sincere praise. He was almost smug himself. It was a pleasant change, having a remote to fiddle with Alex's unruly affections. Burr would be more reluctant to take advantage of the boy like that, but it happened all too often that Alexander treated him the same, and in some regard Hamilton was benefiting from the attention.

And _then. Laurens._

His old friend, old lover and brother in arms. Their era wouldn't have them together in the public eye, and in ensuring his legacy, Alex had to be married off. They couldn't be together forever, they'd always known it, and remained friends after the fact. But John, he... He was almost enough to wipe the slate clean. The general was never on Hamilton's mind when his eyes were on John. Who cared if that man no longer cared for him? John Laurens did, and boy was it something to savor. It wasn't the same with John as it was with Maria. This wasn't cheating, it was momentary surrender to heavy medicine. Long hugs hello, soft kisses goodbye. They weren't romantic so much as they were echoes of past romance.

John did it best. Held him closest, smiled the brightest. Not buried too deep in his mind, he recalled a Hamilton that was bright and durable and always alive with fire enough to burn down the nation. John didn't need to fish around in his thoughts for the flattery he imposed. Each word dripped from him and onto Alexander with saccharine security and authenticity. Neither of them ever smiled so vulnerably raw.

These things went on for months. Alex danced hungrily between his net of companions, twirling and falling into the arms of whoever would put up with him. But, like all drugs, the high wore off. It changed slowly, each time left him emptier than he'd started, until finally nothing could sate him. He couldn't be satisfied. Working alongside General Washington became a laboring chore. The other men all snickered and chided about how embarrassingly obvious he was. The general looked at him with eyes that said _'jump'_. Hamilton held his gaze pleadingly. _'How high?'_.

How high would he have to jump this time? How long would George deprive him of the one thing he truly needed? It was a horrid withdrawal. He had sicknesses and chills at night, damn it; laying awake thinking feverently about his commander.

Was he still all the things he said he was?

Sure, Burr said he was smart, but was he? His writing looked to round, too sloppy. Ugly, worthless — what did Washington think?

John coo'd into his ear that he was strong. Strong? In what way, which way? He could shoot fine, yes, lift a few pounds, but was that enough? He hadn't the strength to lure Washington back. Lafayette was surely stronger, in many ways. There was still something missing.

Eliza's gentle hands promised he was handsome as ever. No, you're not too thin, Alexander. Gods, no, don't cut your hair. You're fine, you're fine. In the end he would acquiesce, to soothe her worried eyes, but he didn't smile — he only wondered.

What would his father — no, no, no. What would George, his friend, his leader, not his father, he wasn't his —

It was late January when that warm tear slid down Alexander's cheek. It fell at midnight into a pool of insomnia at his feet. Papers were scattered in an unorganized mess across his desk, ink spilled. The lump in his throat continued to grow, constraining his breathing a bit. At 12:03, another tear burned down his cheek, slow and heavy. That was the second and last of the night.

The next day, Alexander broke into a million shards. He left the house early, kissed Eliza goodbye, hugged Laurens hello on his way to work. A quick drink with Lafayette that he drank too fast to taste, and he ran into Burr at the bar. They exchanged wits for a moment, but it was obvious that Alexander was a man on a mission. Everyone that caught his eye caught his vibe. _Fire_. Crackling, snapping, engulfing fire, sending up thick black clouds in his brown eyes. He snapped the quill he'd been given to sign his receipt with, and his hands trembled slightly. Lafayette had the worried mind to question him, unknowing that he was a target among many of Alexander's jealously. He was still taken with lenience.

"Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas Alexander? Pas un autre duel, mon ami?" He asked kindly, walking with Alexander as they approached their base. Before Hamilton could answer or leave, Lafayette took a gentle hold on his arm and followed his eyes to the generals door.

"Pas quelque chose avec le général? Êtes-vous en difficulté à nouveau Alexander?"

Alex grit his teeth and lightly pushed Lafayette's hand off of his arm. The Frenchman grinned teasingly, but Alex kept storming forward, leaving his friend in the dust.

"Ne commence pas un autre scandale, ma chérie, mon cœur est trop faible!" He heard the noble laugh behind him. _Well fuck him_ , Alex thought, grumbling just clearly enough to still be heard from a few feet away.

"Je vais vous montrer où mon scandale va, juste vous attendez."

The last thing he heard before he knocked on the generals door was "Votre français est faible," doused in sarcasm. He didn't care. He was on a roll fueled by intent now.

The door opened after a moment of anxious waiting. Alex's tongue and heart and words caught in his throat, jumbled and liquidy under Washington's hardened eyes. Anger subsided for a moment, replaced by a head filled with emptiness, before the well of emotion gushed back forward.

"Sir." He managed, almost, almost feebly.

"Alexander."

**Author's Note:**

> wowzers i edited it
> 
> no plot changed, just e n l o n g a t e d it a bit. I'm working on chapter two!


End file.
